Page 49 of Finding Hope

I knew better, and what I did to Brittany and all the women before her was not okay.

But somehow, today’s different. Seeing the damaged paint doesn’t make my soul ache. In fact, it almost makes me laugh.

She got me good.

Waddling excitedly and waiting by the car, Annie’s tail thumps the door until I beep it open and let her in. Diving in and scratching the leather with her nails, she slides along the smooth seat and curls into a ball before I’m around my side.

Letting out a content sigh as soon as I climb in beside her, her ears twitch and her tongue lolls out in a goofy smile.

She hasn’t been mad in a while, either. Finally, she’s back on my side.

Pulling out of my driveway, we roll through the gates and onto the public road as Ed Sheeran’s ‘Perfect’ plays through my speakers. This song reminds me of Steph, of the love we shared, of my high school sweetheart, of the good girl that I miss with every bone in my body.

I’ve finally reached a point where I can think of her fondly, instead of the debilitating anger and anguish that I felt for so long after she was taken. Finally, I can think of her and smile. Finally, I can make this visit, and walk away lighter, happier, instead of heading back to the bottle.

Every week, Annie and I make this trip; first to Jonah’s store to buy flowers and a carton of chocolate milk, then across town, where I slowly drive down the private lanes.

Large trees frame the entire area, the surprisingly lush green grass –given this time of year – welcomes us, and the flowers remind me that life is a cycle.

The icy cold of winter has them packing away, but spring brings them back, and their brightness is made more beautiful because of their absence.

Parking in my usual space, I climb out of my car, and Annie lithely jumps out behind me. She knows this routine as well as I do. She takes off for a walk, sniffing around to make sure everything’s where it’s meant to be, while I go to see Steph. I cross my legs, sit on my ass, and read the inscription on the front of her tombstone.

Every week, it’s like a horse kicked me in the solar plexus.

But every week, I walk away with a smile.

Like a couple of old friends catching up over chocolate milk and sunshine, she helps me, even from wherever she is now.

“Hey, Stephy.”

Fussing with the bouquet of purple irises in my hands, I make sure they’re all exactly right for her. “How are you doing this week, baby?”

Silence, of course, but trees move with the wind, birds happily call to each other, and Annie’s sniffles play on the breeze.

It’s hello.

It’s good enough.

Leaning forward, I place the bouquet in the crystal vase I brought here a couple months ago. Miraculously, no one has stolen it yet. “I brought you some flowers. I hope you like them. Purple.” Satisfied with their placement, I sit back and reseat my hat. “Your favorite color.”

This has become a weekly routine for us now. Something Sonia suggested back when we first started seeing each other.

My first day back here wasliterallythe first day since the funeral. I never visited. Not once.

I spent that day crying and apologizing to Steph. Apologizing for not visiting sooner. For not protecting her when I should have. For not looking after myself.

But each visit after that has gotten a little easier, a little lighter.

I started telling her about what I was doing day to day; about training again, about eating better and not drinking anymore.

Last night’s celebration, the celebration I wasn’t ready to admit to Bambie, was the fact I was more than two months sober. Not a huge deal to some, but it was a turning point for me. I’m not perfect, but this is something I’d regained control over.

I would do better, I wouldbebetter, because I deserve it.

But more importantly, my family deserves it.

As well as telling her the good, Steph had become my confessional; I told her about the missing birthdays, totaled cars, the way I treated my family like shit.

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